


Casablanca (I want to be shameless like the sun)

by Caivallon



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: "If I ever flirted with you, I'd tell you how good you smell, or how much I want to get my hands all over your body. How tempted I am to lick that mole underneath your ear and bite down on your neck. If I'd ever flirt with you, I'd lean in even closer right now and rub my cheeks against yours until they are red and raw from your scruff. Or I'd bring my hand onto your thigh and trace my fingertips upwards...”





	Casablanca (I want to be shameless like the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this story for Valentine’s Day this year, but life happened and I didn’t get around to post it. Then I wanted to post it after the news of Patrick moving into the same building as Jonny...but again life happened.  
> So you’re getting another winter fic in summer. Will I ever manage to post a season appropriate story? I don’t know but I’ll try. ^.^ Title is from Sol Seppy’s amazing song [ **Enter One** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypApKTXuOxU), even though the lyrics don’t fit at all, I love the atmosphere of the song. 
> 
> Thank you for your spontaneous but lovely beta job, [ **Bee** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou). Without you I’d be lost ♥ 
> 
> Since I decided to not use any tags I put a summary in the endnotes for those who don't like surprises. ^.^ I tried my best with the smut parts, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing. 
> 
>    
> [](https://imgur.com/ZjorPU2)

**Casablanca (I want to be shameless like the sun)**

 

The bar is not really packed- not even for a Thursday night- but it's definitely busier than he would have liked it to be, and for a couple of seconds he hesitates. 

It's not that he has a lot of options right now, apart from his apartment. And that option is way less appealing than this unknown bar and the risk that some of the patrons could recognize him. 

He’s freezing to the core right now, lips stiff, eyes and nose stinging from the merciless cold. If he's out here any longer his hands or feet will fall off (and since he needs both for hockey that’s not an option). He should have brought gloves or at least a scarf along with his beanie, but he didn't think that far ahead when he left his apartment. A poor mistake that should not happen anymore after so many Chicago winters. 

His own stupidity combined with the memory of feeling the walls closing in on him at home, of needing to get out and out of his own skin that followed him after the dirty loss the night before… they make it easy to push open the door and enter the soft golden darkness of the bar. 

The warmth that engulfs him is so sudden that his gaze gets blurry and the flesh of his cheeks and fingertips starts to burn. He sighs aloud with relief before he fumbles with the buttons of his coat, biting his frozen lips when the first two attempts fail. When he looks up again to scan the room for an empty table he meets the eyes of the guy behind the bar, watching him with barely hidden amusement and a slightly mocking smirk, as if he's judging Patrick's lack of appropriate clothing for a February night in Chicago; as if he can tell that Patrick feels insecure. 

It's that little grin that makes him pull himself together and step away from the door. That makes him walk over to the bar instead of choosing one of the small tables along the navy wall. Makes him shuffle out of his woolen coat, overly aware that he's being watched. 

But apart from the bartender no one actually pays attention to him, neither the other lonely patrons at the bar nor the couples at the tables. So maybe no one here watches hockey, or at least they don't watch enough hockey to care or recognize him. 

"You look like you could use something strong tonight." 

When Patrick pulls off his beanie and raises his eyes again the bartender is in front of him, handing him the menu over the counter; a thick leather bound folder with the name of the bar engraved on the front. But the only thing Patrick really pays attention to are the long and elegant fingers, the skin a color of molten caramel, smooth and nimble. 

He shivers. He swallows. He tries to suppress every thought about the things these fingers could do—how they would feel around his wrists and under the hinge of his jaw. On the inside of his thighs.

Patrick shakes his head but the image stays. 

"How could you tell?" 

"I work weekday night shifts in a bar… trust me, there's nothing I haven't seen." With a small and almost thoughtful grin the guy grabs a tumbler from the shelf behind him and starts to pour a golden liquid from one of the bottles. "You come in here, not properly dressed for the weather, eyes all sparkling with furor, brows set in anger, checking the room as if someone might see you here, judge you… Girlfriend trouble?"

Patrick watches him while he takes the first sip: it's heavy on his tongue, bordering on oily, and sharp like burned wood when it goes down his throat. He almost coughs. Unsure if it's only because of the whiskey or maybe also because of the bartender’s words. Does he know? Did he recognize him? 

"Something like that." 

"I'd say wife trouble, but you're not wearing a wedding band. And since you don’t seem to the marrying kind… that only leaves boyfriend trouble." 

Now Patrick really has to cough, and he takes two fast, big gulps of the drink to mask it. But from the way the guy smirks he knows he's not succeeding. 

“Or you’re just lonely.”

'He's good.' Patrick's heart beats loud in his chest; he wants to look down, to hide his face, except that he can't—can't admit defeat. He can only hope that the hotshot bartender isn't into sports. That he has managed to find one of the few guys who isn't into hockey in this hockey-crazed city, where his face and jersey number are plastered everywhere. 

“Please don’t say it’s boring work troubles. Had enough of that today already.”

Patrick snorts. 

“You’re not exactly busy here tonight as it seems. Can you afford to be picky?” 

The guy leans over the counter, leans close--tempts Patrick to lean in… and the thought is too enticing not to. 

“I think I’d take your boring work troubles over those of anyone here tonight.” 

He fake whispers it, but still only loud enough that no one except Patrick can hear him. Can hear him even over the fast rush of blood in his ears. Because the guy’s breath is tickling his cheek and his fingertips are not-quite-touching-but-almost-touching the back of his hand. 

“What makes you so sure about that? I could be a train conductor and talk about how frustrating it is to work 8-hour shifts steering the same train through dark tunnels and yelling at people to stand back from the doors.” 

“You could be. But you’re not.”

Now those fingertips really slide over Patrick’s skin and he can feel it everywhere in his body. Like warm rain, like a breath of cool air. Like all the possibilities he never had before. He swallows; first dryly, trying not to cough. Then he takes another mouthful of whiskey, burning all the way to his stomach and yet not enough to drown the electric touch. 

When he sits straight and meets the bartender's eyes again he finds them staring at him, or maybe the expanse of his bared throat just before. 

' _Interesting_.' He thinks before he gestures for another one. 

"So, tell me, what do you really do?" 

“Take a guess. Impress me.”

"Aren’t you already?" The man reaches for another glass, quickly nodding to his coworker to take care of the other orders from the tables. Patrick takes advantage of the moment to let his eyes quickly wander up and down. He’s tall and clearly in shape, would feel good under his touch, solid and hard in all the right places but Patrick is caught by his neck, where the dark hair curls softly over the white collar; it makes him want to reach out, to press himself against the guy’s back and bury his nose in those strands. 

He _is_ impressed. 

But he tries to hide it as well as he can, lowers his gaze slowly to circle the rim of the glass in front of him. Can feel the guy’s eyes on him. Warm and heavy. 

“Well… obviously, you’re dressed way too nice to work for the CTA. You speak quietly but you're very straightforward and secure, so you’re probably used to talking in front of an audience which rules out finances. You’re very good at what you do because you have that knowing smile in the corner of your mouth. My guess would probably be that you’re in public relations or maybe event management because you seem to be too honest and outgoing to be a lawyer.” 

Patrick tries not to laugh and fails badly. Not because those observations are not true—they could be, at least he hopes so. But they still are so wrong and the guy's face when he breaks out in hearty laughter is hilarious: how his very confident and almost smug grin falters into an almost hurt frown.

It's so hilarious that he has to laugh even louder, not caring that the other patron at the bar gives him a quizzical look. 

“I’m sorry, but you’re so very wrong.” He takes a sip of his drink to stop grinning and tone down his amusement. 

“You know, I’d be happily wrong any time if I get to hear you laugh like this.”

It’s bland and obvious flirting and the line is so cheap… it shouldn’t work, Patrick shouldn’t feel the heat rising into his cheeks, shouldn’t try to hide it. But it does. 

Maybe because the guy looks as if he’s embarrassed about his own words, as if he’s surprised and really meaning it. 

“You really have a great smile.” 

There is nothing Patrick can say to that, so he just watches the guy dry and polish glasses. Watches his fingers and hands work, the way his eyes squint as he holds a wine glass into the light to check for smudges before putting it back onto the shelf. 

"So… what are you doing when you're not pouring drinks for lonely late night patrons here, studying psychology?" 

The guy huffs. "Sorry to blow your illusions but entertaining lonely and cute patrons is a full-time job. No time to study anything. Also, I like to sleep in." 

"Yeah, you look like it." Patrick rolls his eyes; it's for show only, supposed to be seen. 

"What does this mean now?" 

"Shouldn't be a problem for you to figure that out… since you're so good at reading people."

"No, I meant what does it mean that you're flirting with me now." 

"If you think that's me flirting then you're not as smart as you think." Patrick chuckles, fingers following the edges of the napkin underneath his glass. 

"Maybe not yet, but you will." 

It's a statement, the tone so matter-of-fact as if he tells Patrick the sky is blue and the earth revolves around the sun. And Patrick would laugh about that confidence if it didn't work for him. He has always been a sucker for that kind of simple self-sureness the other man radiates. There is nothing boastful or braggy about it, nothing too overly showy. Just the calm security of someone who knows what he's capable of and how he comes across to others. 

The guy starts to wipe down the counter, meticulously cleaning the bottles of liquor and syrup before putting them back into the fridge below the counter. Most of the other clients have left by now: it's clearly winding down, close to midnight when Patrick checks his watch. Two couples talk quietly in the corner by the window and another man is still sitting at the bar, a few seats away. He looks like a businessman, dressed in a wrinkled grey suit, browsing idly on his phone. The waitress is nowhere to be seen. 

No one seems to pay attention to them. 

"Trust me," he leans forward a bit, licks his lips. "I'll let you know if I ever start flirting with you."

That gets him another smile before the guy turns around to reach for one of the higher shelves. He's wearing simple pants and a white shirt, not even that tightly tailored but Patrick can still see the muscles of his back shift, can admire the broadness of his shoulders and the trim waist. There is a lot going on, and it's all working for Patrick. He averts his eyes, bites his lips. It's really only a conscious movement, something he just _does_. But when he looks up he again finds the bartenders gaze on him—on his mouth, his lips. 

"Do… do you do that often?"

"I could maybe answer your question, except that it's a bit vague."

"Entertaining cute and lonely patrons." 

"It's part of the job description." 

"Most be tough." Patrick doesn't like the answer, even though he can appreciate the honesty. And the cockiness that's finally bleeding into the low and casual voice again. 

"It can be. Most of them aren't as pretty as you." 

"Yeah, of course. I'd pity you if I cared." 

"Trust me. It doesn't happen every day that someone like you walks in here. Mostly it's just middle aged women, frustrated by their job, their marriage, or lack thereof. Lonely businessmen who are only here for a convention, looking for a drink and someone to listen to their boring and yet stressful lives. Or married couples trying to escape their daily routine." 

"So… I'm a real treat?" Patrick taps his finger against the glass; it's half empty but he braces himself, already feeling more than the warming effect in his stomach, already mellow and loose around his edges—all tension gone, the frustration and restlessness almost forgotten. 

"You are." 

Again the sincerity. Again the obvious appreciation. 

It makes him feel even warmer, makes him blush. 

"Can you—" he swallows, quickly takes another sip. "Can you please not—"

“That can’t seriously be the first time someone tells you this.” 

“No, but—” 

Drunk fans after Stanley Cup wins probably don’t count. Or maybe he’s not drunk enough to believe it. 

“But not if you say that to every other person sitting in my place.”

Or maybe he is drunk enough because he never wanted to say this aloud. 

Drunk enough to imagine a flicker of actual hurt, followed by a shadow of anger in the guy’s eyes. 

“Listen, a little bit of flirting may be in the job description, but lying isn’t.”

Patrick feels caught, and maybe a little foolish. Yet mostly he feels strangely relieved and jittery. As if he drank something sparkly, like champagne and not straight whiskey. He bites his lip, raises his eyebrows. “Promise?” 

"Promise." 

When he looks up again he smiles. It's not a hardship, not when he finds the bartender already staring at him, eyes darker than even before, lips plush as if he has bitten them while watching Patrick—as if Patrick is indeed a treat, something very delicious he wants to devour. 

It's a stare that makes him shiver in the most thrilling way. That tingles in his fingertips and pools warm in the pit of his stomach. That excites him more than anything he's seen in the last couple of weeks. 

A promise that should be innocent, yet it’s more a challenge that feels like anything but that. Not at all. And Patrick holds his breath when the guy leans forward and places his hand next to his on the counter. It may look casual and insignificant to someone else—even to Patrick, because they aren't even touching. Not for real. Not for long. 

Just for about three or four seconds. A whispery and fleeting brush over Patrick's knuckles; warm, soft, teasing and over too too soon. Strong hands with long and elegant fingers, with tanned skin that makes such a stark contrast next to his own. That makes it so easy to imagine what else those hands could do to him, how they would feel sliding over his shoulders, over his throat and cupping his face before forcing it upwards. 

Patrick has to tear himself away forcefully, has to grab his glass to hide the effect the image of those hands has on him; grab for anything that keeps him from reaching out and wrap his own fingers around that hand and follow the ups and downs of those knuckles, wrap them around that wrist and brush his thumb over the smooth looking skin and feel the beat of blood underneath. 

He takes a huge sip of whiskey and this time the alcohol almost feels good, almost feels like water—crisp and clear enough to lift that haze from his brain that overcame him at the other man's touch. 

"So, are you—" Stuttering, stumbling and looking for words that are nothing but a distraction. His fingertip finds the logo of the bar on the napkin but he's again distracted because the fabric feels rough and harsh and not as good as the guy's skin.

"Is this your bar? Are you Rick?"

The laugh that his questions triggers is almost infectious with how loud it is, how amused and open. And suddenly it's so easy to forget about their barely-there touch, because there is more delicious skin exposed in front of his eyes when the guy leans his head back and reveals the full expanse of his throat (covered with the perfect amount of scruff, the sharp dent of an adam's apple), a glimpse of his chest (more golden skin stretched over the slices of collarbone, two or three moles dotted temptingly in between them). 

Patrick is almost sure he has never seen a more attractive guy and the prospect of getting his mouth on all of this… of tasting the sun colored honey skin almost makes him drool. 

"Ever heard of the movie Casablanca?" 

Vaguely. Boring. Black and white and making his mom tear up whenever someone mentions it. 

"Too boring." 

"Of course." He nods as if he expected nothing different. "Well, no, I'm not Rick. I'm Jack." 

"That wouldn't make a good name, I guess." 

"It wouldn't, but it's a much better name than Rick."

"Anything is probably a better name than Rick.“

"Thank you. And if I didn't know better I'd say that you're flirting with me now." Jack picks up a tray and winks before he comes around the counter and starts rearranging the bar stools. 

Patrick watches; the way he moves, the shape of his body and the effortlessness with which he picks up the heavy chairs with one hand. It's obvious that he works out regularly and that he's aware of how good he looks, how Patrick admires his every movement. 

The nearer he gets to Patrick the harder it is for him to breathe, to not notice the faster beat of his heart, the goosebumps that cover his arms at the prospect of being so close to Jack. And then he's next to him, pretending to adjust the chair but they both know it's only an alibi to brush his left hand over Patrick's thigh; a short and fleeting contact that spreads like fire inside Patrick's veins and makes his dick jump, makes him inhale sharply because his lungs suddenly realize that there is not enough oxygen, only to be overwhelmed with the presence of Jack's scent—something fresh and still smoky, like limes and campfires, like a hot and dry summer night. 

It's so good that he has to close his eyes for a second before he opens them again, not wanting to reveal how much he likes it and the pictures his mind creates as Jack leans in to whisper in his ear. 

"But you'll let me know when you're actually flirting with me, right? Don't want to be mistaken again." The voice is low and Patrick can feel it everywhere inside him, like ripples of water after someone threw a stone into a calm lake. 

And Patrick wants to object, deny that he would ever even think about flirting with Jack—only that he knows that it's futile, that he got caught, that he got caught a long time ago. He shifts, sighs and then finally turns his head, slides his lips not really over the stubbled jaw but almost. _Almost_. 

Almost feels the reaction in Jack's body as if they are pressed against each other. 

The shock of surprise and excitement. The electricity of arousal. 

"If I ever flirted with you, I'd tell you how good you smell, or how much I want to get my hands all over your body. How tempted I am to lick that mole underneath your ear and bite down on your neck." He breathes raggedly, has trouble to hold himself back. "If I'd ever flirt with you, I'd lean in even closer right now and rub my cheeks against yours until they are red and raw from your scruff. Or I'd bring my hand onto your thigh and trace my fingertips upwards so that I could almost touch your dick. I'd stop right before and whisper filthy things into your ear until you'd snap and buck up against my hand." 

The satisfaction of Jack's fast breathing, of the visible trembles that run through his body while he bites his pretty lips so hard they turn white. 

God, he's beautiful and Patrick beat him at his own game. 

He's sure he never experienced anything that hot in his whole life before. 

"But…" it takes a lot of willpower to not really close the tiny distance between them and do all the things he just described. To taste the tanned skin with his tongue and feel the muscles of Jack's thigh with his fingers before finally cupping the hard on that he's sure Jack is sporting already. "But since I'm not flirting with you, I won't do all those things." 

It takes every bit of his willpower to turn away again and reach for his glass, to lift it to his mouth and not reveal that his hands are trembling with the effort because he longs to do all these things. To act casually and not check Jack's reaction. 

Because he's so beautiful and thrilling and everything Patrick needs right now.

Jack's low chuckle is the oil and the spark that is enough to ignite that fire and he probably knows it. Just like he knows that Patrick will do everything to burn tonight. 

"That's a pity… that you won't flirt with me. Because you're missing out." Jack steps behind him, hands left and right around Patrick on the chair, just brushing his thumbs over Patrick's jeans-clad thighs; not really touching Patrick, but again not _not_ touching him. "I could tell you what you're missing… how I would step between your legs and wind them around my waist before I'd lean in and press you against the counter. How I'd make you feel small and cornered and also powerful because I'd show you exactly how much you turn me on and how much I want you. How I'd make sure that you're treated like the pretty and gorgeous thing you are and kiss you everywhere, lick you everywhere. How I'd make you come first on my fingers, then on my tongue and then on my cock. Right here, in the open, where everybody could see. Because you deserve to be worshiped like that." 

Patrick almost whimpers, he can't help it. Just like he can't help the precome wetting the inside of his jeans. He wishes Jack would stop. Wishes he would continue. 

Wishes he would make all his promises come true.

"I could tell you that… But since you're so intent on not flirting with me I guess there's no point in wasting your time and my breath." The last word is a long exhale; hot and moist in Patrick's neck. Followed by the sweetest and shortest kiss against his hairline. And for a second Patrick is actually surprised that he doesn't come. 

His skin tingles and burns as if it was kissed by fire and Patrick can feel the heat in his whole body. 

His brain is too inundated with all the images to even come up with a decent and fast comeback. But even if he could manage one, his mouth would have been too dry to reply. Or worse, he would maybe moan aloud and start begging for Jack to just. Do. All. That.

When he looks up and meets Jack's gaze again his eyes are even darker than before and so intense that Patrick almost flinches. No one has ever looked at him like this; as if he wanted to lick the taste of the whiskey right out of Patrick's mouth, as if he wanted to kiss him blind and then some more, until the only thing he could taste was Patrick. 

But he doesn’t kiss him and everything is left to words, fleeting touches and a haze of images in his head because then Jack distances himself and steps away.

"I'll be right back," Jack nods towards the businessman at the end of the counter. "Maybe you'll change your mind about the flirting until then."

He leaves and Patrick's back is suddenly cold without that body heat behind him. But when he inhales deeply he can still smell that same delicious fragrance lingering and he takes three huge gasps until the effect wears out. It doesn't help his heartbeat because that is still going fast and hard inside his chest, pulsing through his whole body. 

Patrick feels nervous and lightheaded like he never felt on the ice before—not even before the puck drop of the SCF or a shootout at the Worlds. 

Jack is closing the tab of the businessman at the counter, who's fumbling with his wallet and some dollar notes; probably a German then. He can't place the accent or what they are talking about but it's not like he's really trying. Instead, he turns around and scans the bar, watches the waitress say goodbye to the last couple on the table along the wall, watches the man help his girlfriend into her coat while she fumbles with her purse and phone. 

He's the last client left and this awareness doesn't help to calm him at all. Because all his experience is for shit when it comes to this—

Can he linger until Jack is done? Or is he supposed to just go to the washroom? Wait for Jack to follow him and press him against the tiles while he fumbles open Patrick's pants and finds the wet mess Patrick has already made of himself? 

But when Jack passes him on his way back he doesn't stop, doesn't lean in again, he goes straight back behind the counter, talks with his coworker who cleaned the last table, laughs and jokes and wishes her a good night while she presses a goodnight kiss against his cheek. She winks towards Patrick as if she knew, as if she's not even surprised at all. 

As if this is a daily situation for her.

Probably because it is. 

He feels embarrassed. He feels replaceable. 

There's still some whiskey in his glass and he drinks it as if it could answer his questions, listens to the voice screaming inside his head that this is bad, that this will end badly. Wishes it could quell the arousal that he feels at the thought of being just that. _Replaceable_. 

Convenient. 

Nothing but a casual and random hookup for a bartender who probably gets hit on at least twice every night. Who uses the same lines and touches to charm older women, younger girls, frustrated men and curious boys. 

No one special. 

No expectations. No responsibility. No pressure. 

_No disappointment_. 

It's dangerous and easy at the same time and when he places the glass back onto the counter, Jack is right there on the other side, raising his eyebrows. A challenge and a promise. Everything Patrick wants it to be. 

His sleeves are brushed back and his hair is messy, but the little smile he gives Patrick is almost sweet, the dark brown of his eyes soft like chocolate and so damn sincere as if Patrick is everything and nothing of what he dreaded before. The muscles of his arms shift when he leans closer and the stubbled jaw makes Patrick's fingers itch to touch it. 

He is the most attractive guy Patrick will ever have sex with and he'd be stupid to deny himself this. 

"So… If I changed my mind about that flirting thing…" 

The hitch in Jack's breathing is so satisfying. 

"What would I have to do?" Patrick licks his lips. He hopes he's not blushing, or at least that it's not visible in the dim light. "I'm not—do I have to go for the restrooms and…" 

But Jack just chuckles. 

"Do you really think I would seduce you in our toilets?" He sounds almost hurt at this assumption. His index finger traces over Patrick's knuckles, a light and electrifying touch, before he removes the empty glass and the napkin, puts them away without ever taking his eyes from Patrick. "Didn't I tell you that I would treat you better, didn't I tell you that I would worship you the way you deserve?" 

Something curls in Patrick's stomach at those words, something dark and deep and hot like a sweet forbidden fantasy that he never dared to dream about. 

"Technically you seduced me here already but…" He wishes he wouldn't stammer, wishes he was as cool and suave as Jack; not sounding like a virgin or someone really inexperienced while he watches Jack come back around the counter and up to him. Wishes he could take his eyes from him or at least wouldn’t find it so breathtaking when he takes in the line of that body, the fabric stretching over those thighs and that chest. Wishes he wouldn’t inhale the second he's close enough to get more of that intoxicating mix of flavors or dream about how their kiss would taste. 

"Then let me tell you that I don’t plan to fuck you in a cheap washroom. I won't press you against cold tiles or go down on you on in a toilet stall." He stands in front of Patrick now, tall and dark and so confident, hand coming around Patrick's face, fingers in his hair and thumb brushing over the heated arch of his cheekbone. 

"God, you're so delicious, with that little blush and those pale freckles. So much more beautiful up close." 

Patrick's eyes flutter close; only to open immediately again. He can't _not_ look up at Jack, who looks honestly floored at the moment. Overwhelmed like Patrick is. For the first time all that cool demeanor is gone, all that well-practiced behavior… and the knowledge that it’s because of him is beautiful. 

And then Jack is kissing him. 

Leaning in and tipping his face up to brush Patrick's lips with his own. Kissing him with a touch that is so different from what Patrick expected: tentative and mellow and so good that he doesn't even realize how he melts into it and opens up. Spreads his legs so that Jack can step between them, so that Patrick can wind his legs around him and open up for that sweet and pleading tongue, granting permission he probably gave a long time ago. He brings his arms around Jack's back to have him closer and feel his strong shoulders before grabbing his ass and head to deepen the kiss and rub against his crotch. 

When they finally break apart his mouth tastes of lemon and salt and the sea and he hates himself for the need of oxygen. _So inconvenient. So very unnecessary_. 

He licks his lips before pulling himself up and against Jack. Touching him with open mouth and tongue and teeth and everything he's got. It's wet and messy and the sounds they both make are probably downright filthy.

"Your… your mouth, it's—do you know what you're doing to me? Since you stepped through that door I wanted to do that." 

"Then put your money where your mouth is and get back to that." 

There is something about the way Jack touches him, _knows_ how to touch him. To find all the right spots that make Patrick shiver instinctively, apply just the right amount of pressure on his jaw to get him to lean into the kiss even more. The perfect mixture of teasing and caressing when he slides his hand over the dents of Patrick's spine. The slow rhythm of thrusts against Patrick's erection. 

The next time they stop - need to breathe - long enough Patrick finds Jack looking like a mess. There is nothing left of that confident and casual behavior he displayed before. His hair is chaos, his neck is flushed and his lips are bitten and Patrick did all that. Just like he caused the trembling hands that slide to his chest to work on the buttons there, or the hard on that's rubbing against Patrick's knee when he slides his leg between Jack's. 

When his shirt is open and then finally gone he slides from the stool because the distance between them is too much and he has to press his whole body against Jack's, has to rip and fumble and rip to get that white shirt out of his way and reveal a smooth chest and hard abs that are even better than expected and make his stomach flip. 

Skin on skin is thrilling, is relieving—and at the same time it's not. It's frustrating because there are so many parts of them that aren't touching, that they still have to uncover. Because they have to part and stop kissing to do that. 

"I love how you taste," Patrick pants. It's true. Intoxicating just like the way Jack smells. "I can't—I…" 

He leans in to lick over the corner of Jack's mouth where he finds more of that taste before he bites down again on his lower lip, sucks on it until he's sure he got all of it. 

"Tequila shots, we had a girls' party earlier. Kept ordering rounds for me, too." 

Patrick bites down once more—harder than before. Not to get more of the taste, but to get Jack to shut up about anyone else hitting on him tonight. 

The chuckle his reaction provokes tells him that he's not subtle at all, that he got caught again. 

"No need to be jealous, babe. I would have ditched everyone when you walked in. I would ditch everyone to have you walking in here every night." He whispers into Patrick's ear, breath moist and fast and nothing like the movement of his hips against Patrick's lower belly. Nothing like the touch of his fingers while they slide into the gap of Patrick's pants, find their way between the cheeks of his ass.

"Fuck—" Jack groans; his pupils blown wide and mouth wide open. Patrick feels his dick jerk against his belly, desperately and sweet. 

"Yeah, I'm going commando."

"You're—crazy. Have you… have you any idea how hot you are? How much I want to spread you on that table right now and pull down those pants and look at you?" 

Patrick shivers; at the idea and at the blatant want in the low voice. At the fingertip that's dipping into his crease, tracing his rim just like Jack's lips on the shell of his ear. His mind spins and the only thing he knows is that it has nothing to do with the whiskey he drank before. He shrugs, shakes his head and digs his fingers deeper into the strong muscles of Jack's back. Maybe it's too much because he can see a wince. Maybe it's just right because one second later he finds himself lying on top of the table next to them, spread out like a feast with his shirt open and his chest covered in goosebumps that are not caused by temperatures at all. 

Jack is leaning over him, naked chest beautiful and so smooth that Patrick can't stop his fingertips from trailing over every inch. Can't stop his legs from spreading wider and making more room between them, from throwing his head back until Jack can't resist any longer and dives right in: covers him completely and sucks on his pulse as if he wants to leave a permanent mark. 

He stops, probably before it could become a bruise and Patrick hates it. Wants more, wants a tiny bit of proof that this really happened when he wakes up the next day and everything is—nothing but a dream.

He moans, loud. First a bit ashamedly, then again and more uninhibited. First only to get Jack's attention, to suppress any ideas about tomorrow. Then because it feels good, because he feels wanton and wanted. 

Because the focus and desire he can see in Jack’s eyes when he finally pulls down his pants is overwhelming. 

Never before in his whole life has he felt this exposed, this vulnerable and scared. And never before has he felt so treasured, as adored and loved as in this moment while Jack stares down at him as if he's really the best thing he ever laid eyes upon. Hovering above him and almost hesitant to touch him. As if he's really beautiful and precious and holy. 

Patrick isn't used to someone looking at him like this. With a gaze that is so heavy and full of want that he stops breathing. With a gaze that is like a caress. Like a hand digging into his chest and curling around his heart. 

"Jesus, Jonny, please—" he gasps. Because he's sure he's about to die without a hand on his dick or another kiss on his mouth. 

But instead, there is silence. Shocked and stunned silence, filled with harsh and heavy breaths and the hands that have caged him in tremble, the distance becomes farther and then even the eyes cloud over with annoyance. 

_Shit_. 

“I’m… sorry. It was just a—please, continue.” He bites his lips and tries his best to convey all the guilt and embarrassment he’s feeling with his eyes; normally that’s a trick that never fails. 

“I can’t believe that you dropped out of your role _again_.” 

“It was only one second, I’ll be better now, Jo—” 

_Shitshit_. 

There is only one thing he can do now: reach out for Jonny’s neck and pull him in, kiss and lick the protest out of his mouth so intently and thoroughly that Jonny forgets about it. But when they part for oxygen and Jonny props himself up again, Patrick finds him still frowning, even though there is also a little twitch at the corner of his mouth that could turn into amusement and fondness. Patrick just has to kiss him again. And again. Until the frown is completely gone and the twitch becomes a full smile. 

It's no hardship at all. 

_Never_. 

Especially not when Jonny tastes like this, when his hair is messed up and his neck is flushed when he's covering Patrick's body and rubbing against his stomach. 

"I didn't even touch your dick this time."

But the disbelieving tone is totally for show and they both know it. Because now Jonny looks too pleased and flattered. Looks at him as if Patrick is the best thing he's ever had. As if he loves him and never will stop. 

"You could touch my dick _now_." 

"Yeah? Is that so?" A low chuckle; directly against the shell of Patrick's ear before Jonny starts to nibble on his jawbone, alternating kisses, licks and bites. "Maybe I don't want to touch your dick anymore." 

"I thought you'd be a better liar, _Jack_." 

He stretches the name, stretches himself underneath Jonny, fully aware how he must look like—counting on that. Arms and hands above his head, clasping the edge of the table, while he arches his back, nipples perked because it's not exactly warm in the bar, but mostly because being naked under Jonny's gaze always arouses him like almost nothing else. The feeling of being pressed against each other - bare skin on bare skin - elicits a sweet deep moan from Jonny that is even more exciting than the actual touch. 

"Come on… you know you want to.” 

But instead of doing so, Jonny stops and distances himself upward again. Ends the too short moment of contact to stare down at him. For a couple of seconds, he looks so serious that Patrick has to blink. Has to blink because it can't be real: Jonny can't really be mad at him, only wants to punish him for his teeny tiny slip of tongue. It's just a part of the game they play. 

It's part of what they are. 

A game. 

A challenge. 

A promise. 

His heart beats loud and painful in his chest until he feels Jonny's hand around his face, his thumbs brushing over his eyelids, his lips breathing against his own. 

Then the soft, delighted laugh.

"The things I do for you, dummy." 

Jonny's eyes are dark and beautiful. His mouth is sweet and hot. But everything is so much better the second he finally leans in again and puts his hand on Patrick's dick. 

__

“I can’t believe that you rented a whole bar just to fuck me.”

“And I still can’t believe that you screwed up _again_.”

Jonny locks the front door while Patrick watches him fumbling with the key; already shivering in the bitter cold. It's even more freezing than before if possible, with a strong and biting wind blowing in from the lake. 

“Can you hurry a bit? Not everybody is wearing a down jacket.” He pouts. “Anyway, my part was way harder to play, so cut me some slack about that little slip.”

“As if it’s my fault that you left the apartment in your ridiculous Burberry coat.” Jonny doesn’t roll his eyes, or at least not that Patrick can see it. “And what was so hard on your part besides walking a little bit through the cold and remembering that I’m _not_ Jonny.“ 

„Excuse me?! I was the one who had to sit around at home and wait… to get me in the right mood and stuff. That’s serious method acting we’re talking about here.“ Patrick buries his hands in his coat pockets. “Whereas all you had to do was hang out in a bar and do tequila shots with some pretty girls.”

“Yeah, total piece of cake. You forget that I’ve been here since 6 pm and I actually had to _work_. I unloaded the delivery truck, helped open the bar, and learned how to make all those cocktails while you had a little nap and played CoD.”

Patrick laughs, more about the indignation in Jonny’s voice than the image of him working. Then he winds his arm through Jonny’s, presses his body closer. Not only because he’s really fucking cold but mostly because the streets are deserted and there are not many chances that he gets to do that. Maybe also to apologize a bit. _Maybe_. 

“You did okay, I think. But next time it’s my turn to show you how it’s done.”

“Please don’t do anything that involves police or firemen uniforms.” Jonny frowns at him.

“That was one time, okay?! And you looked hilarious trying to get Mrs. Huber’s cat from that tree.”

“No uniforms, I’m serious.”

But he can’t uphold the fake annoyance for longer than two seconds and then he starts smiling, too. Pulls Patrick a bit closer before they cross Lake Street.

Everything is so quiet, so different around this time of the night, closer to dusk than dawn. It’s like they are the only people awake. Skyscrapers loom above them, dark and black against the strange cloudy orange that promises even more snow. It stopped snowing a couple of hours before, beautiful thick flakes that Patrick watched leaning against the window frame of their condo, waiting for time to pass, the city that is now so lonesome and silent busy and hustling as ever way below him. Chicago in winter is different, quivering and throbbing with life during the day - everybody running and hurrying through the streets to escape the cold, and then… suddenly empty like an enchanted castle, silent except for the distant rumbling of a car over La Salle Bridge, their puffy white exhales of breath settling on their eyebrows, lashes and cheeks, the crunching of the snow underneath their feet a harsh but strangely comforting sound that is still linked with promises of frozen lakes and playing hockey. 

It’s so peaceful that Patrick wouldn’t mind walking for hours if he wasn’t that cold. 

But the illusion dies as soon as they turn right and leave the safety of the buildings, as the biting wind coming from the lake hits them like razor blades and makes them cling to each other even more; it smells of crisp ice and stale fumes from Lower Wacker Drive—the typical mix of a February night in Chicago. 

It should be appalling. It should make him wrinkle his nose. It should at least make him laugh about reality shattering every illusion. 

But he doesn’t. Because it makes it even better. 

It’s _home_. 

It’s _theirs_. 

And it makes it easy for him to stop and pull Jonny in, down to him—placing a long but fairly innocent kiss onto his lips. Because usually they can’t do that; not right here, not in the middle of their city. 

“It was really great.” He admits, hoping Jonny would get him. “I’m really sorry that I blew it.”

Of course, he does. He always does. 

“It’s okay… I mean it’s pretty flattering, actually, that you can’t think straight when I’m naked.” 

There are so many witty comebacks Patrick could come up with; but it’s the truth, and they both know it—and once in a blue moon he can admit that, too, even if it should be downright embarrassing and he shouldn’t stroke Jonny’s ego with confessions like this. But Jonny is beautiful tonight (always is) and Patrick is (weak for him) probably one of the luckiest people in Chicago right now: that he found him, that he gets to play and live with him and that he gets to grow old with him.

So he doesn’t reply, only grabs him again and makes him shut up in the most effective way that he knows.

When they finally part, all the smugness is gone and replaced by a little smile and a slight blush that covers Jonny’s cheeks.

“How about we get you out of the cold and then have boring sex as our old boring selves?” 

It sounds like the best idea Patrick has heard in a very long time. 

He can’t wait for it. 

__

Thanks for reading.

I’m also on [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to not use any tags since I couldn't decide on any that would not give the little plot twist away. 
> 
> The main plot (thin as it is) consists of Patrick coming into a bar late at night, looking for a distraction to quiet his restless mind. When the hot barkeeper starts to flirt with him he's tempted to give in even though he knows about the risk of being outed. After all the other patrons are gone they start to hook up. But of course the barkeeper is Jonny and they are only role-playing. 
> 
> Since Patrick is not cheating on Jonny I didn't feel the need to include a warning about infidelity, and since I didn't want to give away that they are just roleplaying I didn't want to use that tag.  
> Please tell me if you think I should add tags anyway, I don't mean to make anyone uncomfortable. But everyone who knows me knows that 1988 is always endgame for me.


End file.
